


(All the Shine of) A Thousand Spotlights

by exalteddm



Category: The Dragon Prince (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Theatre, F/M, Gen, and I think you can tell I have no idea where it is, but that's okay because none of these characters know either, there's a fine line between friendship and romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:01:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27664409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exalteddm/pseuds/exalteddm
Summary: If Callum didn’t know better, he would assume that the toad sitting smugly on the edge of the balcony is trying to mock him. - In which Callum and Rayla struggle through the perils of producing Shakespeare in a high school theater, and maybe discover some things about themselves along the way. Theater AU, one-shot.
Relationships: Callum & Rayla (The Dragon Prince), Callum/Rayla (The Dragon Prince)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 45





	(All the Shine of) A Thousand Spotlights

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Benj Pasek and Justin Paul's "Never Enough", from The Greatest Showman.

If Callum didn’t know better, he would assume that the toad sitting smugly on the edge of the balcony is _trying_ to mock him.

“Come on, Bait,” he says, waving a paintbrush at him in what he hopes is a threatening manner. “You know I can’t paint this thing with you sitting there.” Callum dips the brush back into the can of white and gives the toad a significant look, hoping he’ll get the message and move.

Bait just blinks at him, croaking mournfully, so Callum sighs and starts on the railing instead. He’s just finished the first coat when a hand grasps the top of the safety bar and someone lets out a yelp.

“Uh, I wouldn’t—” Callum starts, too late. The newcomer swings herself over the railing, yanking her hands away from the bar as soon as she lands. She glances down at the paint covering her hands with a mixture of regret and defeat, like she’s already resigned herself to her fate, as the wood beneath her makes a groaning noise that Callum definitely isn’t a fan of.

He frowns and points the paintbrush at her, dripping white flecks all over the floor. It’s about the same color as her hair, he realizes absently, but there are probably more important things to be said here. “You know there’s a perfectly good staircase on the other side of the set, right?” he asks instead.

The newcomer—who he recognizes as Rayla from one of Claudia’s extensive descriptions—gives him a look that clearly says, _Of course I know that, you dummy_. “Walking around the set’s too slow for me,” she says. She has an accent of some sort—Scottish, he thinks? He can’t quite place it.

In response to her argument, Callum just shrugs. He’s not entirely a fan of her logic, but it’s her own fault if she breaks her arm falling off the set or something. “What are you doing backstage, anyway?” he asks. “Isn’t it still lunch hour?”

“Yep.” She takes a measured step away from the balcony’s edge, judging some distance invisible to Callum. “I thought I’d get ahead on my lines—I’m Rayla, by the way. Playing Juliet.”

“Right,” Callum says, nodding. He knows she’s Juliet, of course. It’s kind of hard _not_ to know both of the leads by this point, considering that they were cast two weeks ago and Claudia literally won’t shut up about how talented Corvus and Rayla are.

(He’s happy for Claudia, obviously; Shakespeare is hard enough to direct even _with_ a half-decent cast, but she could at least refrain from singing their praises until they’ve had an actual rehearsal.)

Callum drops his brush back into the paint can. “I can leave you alone up here if you want to practice. Just, uh, watch out for all the wet paint.”

“No, no, it’s okay.” Rayla inspects her hands again and rubs them together, as if that will do anything more than smear the paint. “I don’t want to interrupt you. I wasn’t expecting anyone to be here.”

“Well,” Callum shrugs, “it’s barely anyone. Just me and Bait.” He casts a glance at the toad, who hasn’t moved since Rayla swung herself over the balcony railing. “Not sure where Ezran’s gotten off to.”

“Ezran?”

“My little brother,” he explains. “The middle school has a day off, so he’s shadowing me today—dad’s on a work trip, and all that.”

“Nice of you to let him tag along,” Rayla says. “I assume the wee frog belongs to him?”

Callum winces. “It’s a toad,” he corrects her automatically, like the dutiful brother he is, “but yeah, Bait is Ezran’s. He’s not usually this calm around strangers.”

“I think,” Rayla observes dryly, “that may be due to the fact that you’ve painted him into a circle.”

And, okay, so he has. But Bait’s a toad; he shouldn’t have any problem with getting his feet wet to escape. Or flippers, or whatever it is that toads have.

Callum’s pretty sure they’re feet, but he’ll have to ask Ez later.

“Whatever,” he mutters. “At least this way I don’t have to keep an eye on him. Ez would kill me if he got lost.”

“Well,” Rayla says brightly, “a toad audience is better than no audience, as they say.” (Callum’s pretty sure they don’t, but who is he to judge?) “I won’t be in your way if I start rehearsing up here, will I?”

She will be, kind of, but it’s not like Bait is letting him paint the floor anyway and he can technically work around her to coat the railing again. “No, it’s fine.”

“Good.” She steps to the edge of the balcony, carefully avoiding his paint work, and—without even reaching for her script—launches into a monologue. It’s the rose passage, Callum thinks, not that he understands a lick of Shakespearean anyway.

What he does understand is the _feeling_ Rayla’s speech conveys—even from where they are backstage, her voice echoes through the auditorium and sends chills down Callum’s spine. He’s heard Soren do something similar _maybe_ once in his life, and that was during the opening night of Les Mis, where it’s basically required. So maybe Claudia’s waxing rhapsodic about her is completely justified.

She breaks off suddenly, and he realizes he’s staring.

“Goddammit,” Rayla mutters, seeming to take no notice of Callum. She dries her hands off on a different section of the railing, and then she rifles through her pockets until she finds her script and flips it open to one of many post-it marked pages. “Which is no part of thee,” she mutters to herself. “Thy name, which is no part of thee.”

She launches back into her speech, but this time Callum is able to tear his attention away from her and back to his paintbrush. If he doesn’t get this coat done before lunch ends, he’s going to regret it later.

* * *

“So, where did you go during lunch?” Callum asks, glancing in the rearview mirror so he can meet Ezran’s eyes. “While I was painting the set?”

“You mean while you were talking to a girl?” Ezran says, grinning, and Callum sighs. Apparently his brother didn’t wander very far—not that he shouldn’t have expected this.

“It’s not like that, Ez,” he protests. “She’s one of the actors, and she wanted to rehearse. We were working in the same space, that’s all.”

His brother nods, and Callum almost believes that he’ll drop the topic before Ezran says, “She’s really good.”

“Yeah,” Callum agrees cautiously. The thing is, she _is_ good—he can’t disagree with Ez here. “Really, really good. I can see why Claudia—”

“And she’s pretty.”

Callum clenches his teeth and tightens his grip on the wheel.

“Look, Ez,” he says, as gently as he can, “Not every girl I talk to is someone I might be attracted to. And the same goes for guys, for that matter. I’m allowed to just _talk_ to people without the entire family assuming I’m—” He cuts himself off when he notices Ezran silently losing it in the backseat. “Oh, fine. Laugh it up.”

“It’s not my fault you’re funny when you’re flustered,” Ezran laughs. Callum pointedly keeps his eyes on the road ahead of him—not that taking them off of it would be a good idea anyway. “You’re such an easy target,” Ez snickers, and it takes all of Callum’s willpower to not pull the car over then and there.

Being called an “easy target” by a ten-year-old isn’t really something Callum wants on his list of accomplishments, but he supposes that’s life. He can’t even look forward to embarassing Ezran like this in the future, because his brother has no shame and lives his life accordingly.

Then again, maybe that’s just a trait intrinsic to all ten-year-olds.

“So, uh,” Callum says in a last-ditch attempt to change the subject. “Anyway. What did you think of the high school?”

“It’s nice,” Ezran shrugs. “Bigger than I thought it would be. I’d never be able to find my classrooms.”

That’s an understatement, Callum thinks. Katolis Academy is large enough that he _still_ gets lost sometimes, and he’s been going to school there for three years now. It doesn’t help that he has a terrible sense of direction, either.

“You’ll be there soon enough,” he reminds Ezran. “But you’ll learn how to find your classes pretty quickly, too.”

“Four years isn’t _soon_ ,” Ezran says, a touch petulantly. Callum lets it slide.

He’s pulling into their driveway before he can think of a response, and as soon as he unlocks the car Ezran is leaping out the door, Bait cradled in his arms.

He really should figure out how to enable the child safety lock on the backseat.

“You can head inside, Ez,” Callum tells his brother. “And make sure Bait gets something to eat; you haven’t fed him all day.” Ezran makes a beeline for the door while Callum fishes his backpack out of the trunk, struggling to remember all of the homework he has to finish tonight. He has to pick an essay topic for Theater at some point, he recalls, and he should probably read the rest of the darned play at some point so he stops looking like a fool in class. (Hey, it’s _Romeo and Juliet_ , okay? He has enough SparkNotes proficiency to bluster his way through any questions Ibis throws at him. So far.)

His phone starts ringing as soon as he steps into the house.

Callum frowns at it for a moment before picking up—Claudia usually avoids phone calls like the plague, which is his first clue that something’s wrong. The second clue is the fact that the voice coming through the phone isn’t Claudia at all.

“Sorry to bother you,” says a voice he now recognizes as Rayla’s. “Are you still at the school?”

“Uh, not exactly,” he replies without thinking. “By which I mean, no, I’m not. I’m literally standing in my house right now, I don’t know why I said ‘not exactly’—”

“Damn,” Rayla mutters over him, oblivious to his sudden crisis. “Do you mind if we stick another coat of paint on the balcony for you, then?”

Callum _shouldn’t_ have a problem with that, really. It’s a single coat of white paint on a set for a production he’s not all that invested in, if he’s being honest. But something about the request irks him—he can’t quite put his finger on it.

“Sure, go ahead,” he says anyway. “I don’t mind.” (He does, but he’s pretty sure it’s an irrational feeling.) “What’s the urgency, anyway?”

Rayla hesitates. “Er,” she says. “Remember when I barged in on you during lunch today?”

_Intently_ , Callum thinks, but aloud he just makes a general noise to the affirmative. “What about it?”

“We’re supposed to be doing cast pictures today, but . . . well. There might or might not be a couple pairs of handprints on the side of the railing.”

Callum snorts in laughter, rolling his eyes even though he knows she can’t see him. “I _told_ you there was a staircase, but did you listen? No.”

“It was too late for me anyway,” she grumbles. “I was already halfway over the railing. Anyway, you don’t mind if we re-coat it for you?”

“I don’t mind,” Callum says. “I could come in and do it myself, though, if you want. It, uh, might be faster than you all trying to figure it out as you go.” It’s a little bit of a lie—Callum would be very surprised if they managed to screw up something that simple—but even so, he’d rather make sure of it himself. It’s not like he has anything to occupy him tonight anyway.

His still-pristine copy of _Romeo and Juliet_ notwithstanding.

“Could you really?” She yells something to someone he can’t hear—Claudia, presumably. “Claudia says she’d rather you do it than let a bunch of freshmen loose with the paint. If it’s not too much trouble for you.”

Which, right, that’s another issue entirely. Callum’s already over-budget on his set supplies; he doesn’t need the whole cast of the play trying their best to use his entire can of white in a single go. “I’ll be right over,” he says to Rayla. “And thanks for letting me know.”

* * *

The single coat of paint takes Callum less than ten minutes to apply, but keeping a gaggle of high schoolers from touching it as it dries is a considerably more difficult task.

“No,” he says through gritted teeth for what feels like the tenth time in as many minutes, “we can’t take a blow dryer to it. It’ll mess up the texture, not to mention—hey! Stop _touching_ that!”

It doesn’t help that barely anyone here knows who he is, and Claudia is off somewhere trying to wrangle all of the bit-part freshmen into the auditorium. Callum briefly considers using the rest of his paint as defensive ammunition, but he figures it might be difficult to get another funding request approved afterwards.

“Please take the stairs, it’s what we built them for,” he begs of an actor eyeing the extrusions on the side of the balcony. Honestly, Rayla’s the only one who should be using the balcony regardless. He’s pretty sure none of the other characters have a romantic balcony scene, even if Marcos _is_ using his part as Mercutio as an opportunity to proposition basically everyone tangentially related to the cast.

He nearly groans in relief when Rayla materializes at his side.

“Not up for herding cats, I take it?” she says, stepping carefully around his can of paint. “Claudia should be back soon.”

“Oh, thank God,” Callum mutters. “This is why I try to get my painting done during lunch.”

Rayla winces. “Sorry about that, by the way. I’ll use the stairs in the future.”

“That would probably be for the best,” he agrees. “For both the paint and your potential safety.”

She eyes the balcony, frowning. “How tall is it, eight feet? I’ve survived worse.”

While that’s definitely a story Callum is interested in hearing, he’s not sure if it would be polite to ask. But before he can decide either way, Claudia bursts into the room, dragging not one but two freshmen by the shirt collar.

“Okay!” she yells, hopping up onto one of the mounting blocks lying onstage. “Now that everyone’s _here_ , let’s get started. Rayla, Corvus, get up on the balcony, everyone else in front. Come on, we’ve wasted enough time already!”

Callum ends up taking the photographs, because they don’t actually have a set photographer and most of the cast agrees that Claudia deserves to be in them, too. By the time they’re finished, it’s nearly six o’clock, which means any hope that Callum might have had of getting some of his homework done before dinner is now shot.

He excuses himself anyway—they’re going to start rehearsing now, according to Claudia, and he doesn’t really need to stick around for that—and he grabs takeout from the local Chinese place before driving home. He leaves half of it on the table for Ezran, trusting that his brother hasn’t eaten so many jelly tarts that he’s skipping dinner again, and retreats to his room.

By the time nine o’clock rolls around, he’s halfway through Act III of _Romeo and Juliet_ , and he has over half a dozen tabs open on his laptop, each one claiming to be a translator for whatever archaic language Shakespeare decided to write his plays in.

Unfortunately, none of them seem to work.

Callum opens his phone and texts Claudia, in the desperate hope that she might be able to help. He’d rather not fail Theater this semester, if he can help it.

**Callum:** Are you out of rehearsal yet? I need help deciphering this play

**Claudia:** And I need help not murdering the cast of said play.  
**Claudia:** It’s been three goddamn hours and we’ve run one single scene.

**Callum:** Ouch  
**Callum:** That’s rough

**Claudia:** You’re telling me.

So that’s a bust. He feels a little bad for Claudia, but he figures he’ll hear all about their rehearsal tomorrow. Tonight, he needs to buckle down and study.

He reaches the end of Act III and, upon further reflection, realizes that he’s retained exactly none of the information contained in it. He’s pretty sure at least one of the characters is dead now, but everything aside from that is rather hazy. The prospect of writing an essay on all this is starting to feel a bit panic-inducing.

Defeated, he tosses his script across the room, feeling only vaguely guilty when it lands spine-up, half open in front of his door. Callum pulls his sketchbook off his shelf instead—he needs something to do that isn’t Shakespeare-related. He sketches a few quick scenes he’s been meaning to get to: his stepfather at the airport, preparing for his flight to France for the week; Ezran and Bait in the yard; Claudia and Soren doing ridiculous poses in the hallway in front of the school library.

It’s immensely relieving, to spend time doing something he’s actually good at. Unfortunately, that means he’s even less willing to go back to _Romeo and Juliet_ once he’s done.

Sighing, he opens his laptop and pulls up SparkNotes again. _Just the scene summaries_ , he tells himself. _I can figure out the Shakespearean if I have the scene summaries._

To Callum’s immense relief, it does help—if only a little bit.

* * *

“I swear to God above and anyone else who may be listening,” Claudia growls, “heads are going to _roll_ before this is over.” Callum winces—he knows it isn’t his fault, but still—and shrugs sympathetically. He keys his locker combination in as she talks.

“It was the first rehearsal, Claudia,” he reminds her, shoving two of his textbooks into his backpack. “I’m sure they’ll get better at it.”

“Not quickly enough,” she mutters, her jaw twitching. Callum thinks he recognizes the signs of yet another caffeine-fueled all-nighter, but at this point he’s a little afraid to ask. “We have one decent actor right now, and that’s only because Corvus has done this play before. I swear to God,” she says again, “I think I’m going to go crazy directing this.”

“Just Corvus?” Callum asks, despite himself. “I thought Rayla was pretty impressive, too.”

“She _was_ ,” Claudia complains, knocking her head against the bank of lockers. “During the audition, she was phenomenal. But then, yesterday—it was like she’d never even seen a script before. I need to have a talk with her.”

Callum frowns. Rayla seemed relatively normal when she spoke with him yesterday—at least, as far as he can judge, having known her for less than two days at this point. He wonders if something’s wrong.

“And the entire rest of the cast?” he says to Claudia, because he knows she just needs to rant. “Didn’t you, you know, _cast_ them?”

“Just because I picked the cast doesn’t mean I knew what I was doing,” she says morosely. “This is going to be a disaster.”

For his part, Callum disagrees, but arguing with her isn’t going to do much good at this point. (Arguing with Claudia rarely ever does, to be fair.) Luckily, he’s saved from having to think of something to say by the first-period warning bell.

“Ugh,” Claudia mutters. “Guess I’d better get to class. Catch you later, Callum.”

She tries to turn gracefully, stumbles, and nearly impacts the floor before catching herself on a locker handle. Before Callum has a chance to say anything, she staggers off down the hall, groaning to herself as she goes.

Callum refrains from following after her in concern, but he does send a text to Soren asking him to make sure she gets some sleep tonight.

**Soren:** you think I have any sort of control over that?  
**Soren:** she’ll slit my throat if I act like I’m trying to take care of her

And—well. That’s pretty much the reaction Callum expected, but still. It was worth a try.

* * *

When Callum walks into the auditorium at lunch, intent on finishing the windows on the side of the balcony wall, he finds that Rayla has managed to beat him there. She’s curled up atop the balcony, wedged in the far corner against the railing, her head in her hands. Callum thinks he hears sniffling.

“Rayla?” he says cautiously, starting up the stairs. “Everything okay in here?”

She’s on her feet in an instant, fists clenched, and the look in her eyes is more than a little crazed. Callum takes an involuntary step backward and nearly goes tumbling down the stairs.

“Callum,” she says, her voice slightly gravelly. “I—you—you’re probably here to paint, aren’t you? Don’t mind me, I’ll just get out of your way.” She grabs her backpack and slings it over her shoulder before leaping down the stairs, taking the steps two at a time in her haste.

Unfortunately for her, Callum is too startled to react properly (much less get out of her way, which he supposes really ought to be included as part of _reacting properly_ ), and when she crashes into him on the way down he actually does lose his balance. He cries out, casting about for the nearest handhold, which unfortunately ends up being Rayla’s arm. The two of them go tumbling off the side of the stairs together.

“Ow,” he mutters as soon as he's coherent enough to speak again. Rayla stumbles to her feet next to him, but Callum’s not sure he can achieve that just yet. He rolls onto his back and groans.

“Sorry,” Rayla mutters, glancing down at his prone form. “Really sorry.” Before Callum can even think about responding, she bolts out of the auditorium.

He lets her go. It's not like he has much of a choice.

Once he's recovered sufficiently enough to stand, Callum takes the stairs up to the balcony. He shoves down the part of himself that wants to go looking for Rayla—it's not like they're friends, he tells himself; 

she wouldn't appreciate a practical stranger trying to nose his way into her business—right up until he spots her script book lying next to the railing.

_She probably needs that_ , Callum thinks, frowning. _I should get it back to her._ It sounds awfully close to an excuse, but hey, who's counting? Certainly not him.

He finds Rayla sitting in the hallway just outside the theater—she hasn't gone far, it seems. “Hey, um,” he says, holding out her script book. “You, uh. Dropped this? And I figured you'd appreciate having it back.” 

Rayla blinks at him, glaring at the script like it's the Devil himself given flesh. (Callum hopes it's the book she's looking at, anyway.) “Thanks,” she says weakly. “‘ppreciate it.”

She makes no move to take the book from his hand, so Callum sets it down next to her. “Um,” he says, still the epitome of eloquence. “I'll just, uh, leave you here, then?”

He's halfway through the stage door when he hears her voice behind him. “Callum,” she says, “thank you. Really.”

“Yeah, sure,” he shrugs, jamming his hands into his pockets. “No problem.”

She gives him a faint smile as he shuts the door behind him, which is an improvement, he supposes.

He still doesn't get much painting done that day.

* * *

“It's _fine_ , Callum,” Claudia insists, shoving him gently out the stage door. “You’ll have plenty of time to finish this, and I need the stage for rehearsal in ten. I don't want my actors complaining about paint on their shoes again.”

For his part, Callum just sighs and makes sure the lid of his paint can is tamped down tightly. They still have six weeks until curtain, but he's already several days behind schedule, and he doesn't want to fall behind even further. On the other hand, Claudia is right—a horde of actors trampling over a wet coat of paint would be a little less than productive. 

He goes to put his supplies away in the closet, but he's so focused on mapping out a new timeline in his head as he slings the can of paint onto the shelf that he nearly brains Rayla with it instead.

“Sorry!” Callum yells, stumbling to the side. That thing has _way_ too much momentum for its weight, he thinks, not that the observation is helping him much at the moment—

“Careful there, pal,” Rayla says, raising an eyebrow at him. “You'll put a dent in the wall if you don’t look out.” She frowns. “Why are you swinging that around, anyway? Isn't it full of paint or something?”

“Uh. Well, yes,” Callum replies. “It's just—it's hard to get it up onto that shelf, since I'm not really tall enough to reach it, and—” He stops. “Wait, why are you standing _inside_ the supply closet?”

“No reason,” she says, far too quickly for Callum to trust her. (Not that there's an answer he _would_ trust, at this point.) “Just, um, enjoying the beautiful . . . architecture.”

“The beautiful architecture,” Callum says flatly. Rayla nods. “. . . of the supply closet.”

“Yep.”

Callum sighs, because, well, it isn't really any of his business anyway. She has every right to be here, and as long as she's not touching his supplies, it's fine. “If you say so, I guess,” he says as he turns to go. It's clear that she doesn't want to talk to him. “Have . . . fun, or whatever.”

He pauses at the door, unsure of whether to close it behind him, but Rayla speaks up before he can ask. “Claudia’s not out there anymore, is she?”

“I don't think so, she was in the auditorium last I saw her.” He frowns. “Are you hiding from her?”

“What? Of course not,” Rayla says immediately. “That would be ridiculous, I'm not hiding from—”

“Ah, Rayla!” Claudia calls over Callum’s shoulder. “I've been all over looking for you. We need to have a chat.”

Callum can practically feel the air get thicker with tension.

“Right, of course. Obviously.” Rayla clears her throat. “But, um, it can't happen right now, because Callum and I are already in the middle of a conversation. A very important conversation.”

She glares at him meaningfully, so Callum takes it upon himself to back her up. “Yeah, sorry,” he says. “It's about, uh, Ezran. And it's very important.”

Claudia’s immediate shift into panic mode would be almost comical, if Callum wasn’t so bewildered. “It's about Ez? What’s wrong? Do I need to let you go to deal with it?” She grabs Callum by the shoulders and shakes him while she shouts, which is a bit much for him at this point.

“Uh, letting us go would be nice,” Callum says faintly, a little overwhelmed by the whole situation. “We’ll, uh, be right back.”

He practically bolts out the door, Rayla trailing close behind him, and they make it all the way to his car before Callum remembers that there isn’t actually an emergency at hand. 

Well, not one involving Ezran, anyway.

“Okay,” he says to Rayla, “what is going on here? You’re definitely hiding from Claudia—is something wrong?”

Rayla just sighs and collapses into his passenger seat. He doesn’t recall unlocking his car, but he follows her lead by slipping into the driver’s side. They sit in silence for a few minutes, Rayla fiddling with a hair tie wrapped around her wrist and Callum staring awkwardly at the steering wheel. He decides against starting the car, even if the heater would be nice.

“I suppose . . . I owe you some sort of explanation,” Rayla says finally. _Yeah, that would be nice_ , thinks Callum, but he doesn’t voice the thought. He waits for Rayla to continue instead.

She gives her hair tie a couple more twists before doing so. “I don’t know if I can do this,” she says softly. “The play, I mean. I don’t know if I can get through it without—without breaking down. It’s already so much, and we’ve barely even started . . .”

“Ah.” Callum clears his throat. “Well, a lot of that might be Claudia. She can get pretty intense sometimes, I know, but her bark is much worse than her bite. I’ve done plays with her before.”

“‘Intense’ doesn’t _begin_ to cover Claudia,” Rayla mutters, and well, Callum can’t disagree. Their conversation in front of his locker proves that much. She’s more of a perfectionist than anyone Callum’s ever met, and he’s met _Viren_.

It might be a trait that she inherited from her father, now that Callum thinks about it. Soren’s gotten off lightly in that department.

“It’s not just Claudia, though,” Rayla says, jerking Callum back to the topic at hand. “Being in front of all the other actors, having a _lead role_ even though I’ve never done a play before—it’s a wee bit terrifying. And they’re all so . . . _close_ to each other. I feel like an intruder sometimes. Most of the time.”

Callum takes a moment to process everything she’s just thrown at him. She’s right about the closeness; he’s heard the Katolis Academy theater club unironically described as a cult, though he’s fairly certain the same is true of most theater clubs. But . . . “You’ve never done a play before?” he asks.

It’s probably the wrong question, because Rayla flinches and narrows her eyes at him. “That doesn’t mean I _can’t_ ,” she snaps. “I’m just as skilled as any of your friends here, and if you—” she cuts herself off, blushing. “I mean—”

“No, no, I didn’t mean it that way,” Callum says hastily. “I’m just—surprised, is all. You seem so good at acting, I thought you had to have done some at . . . wherever you were before here.”

“Academy of Xadia,” she replies automatically. “It’s a couple hours east of here, I doubt you’d know of it.” Callum doesn’t, so he just nods. “We didn’t exactly have a theatre program. So I couldn’t have, even if I’d wanted to.”

Callum frowns. “You say that like you _didn’t_ want to do it. But . . . you’re here doing it now?”

“That’s the grand old joke, I suppose.” Rayla chuckles halfheartedly. “I didn’t audition, you know.”

_That_ gets his attention. “Wait, what? So how did—”

“I was here late, the day callbacks happened,” she explains. “Thought I was alone, so I was singing to myself—you know, small things, the odd showtunes I’ve picked up somewhere.” 

Callum nods.

“The next thing I knew,” Rayla says, “Claudia was dragging me into the auditorium by the arm and shoving a script into my hands. I couldn’t just tell her no.”

Callum wants to protest that yes, she could have, but he knows it isn’t always that easy. Especially with Claudia. “And then you got cast,” he says instead. “As Juliet.”

“And then I got cast.” Rayla shakes her head ruefully. “I should have known better. I can act in front of a few people, no problem, but if I’m up on a stage with an audience—or even just at a rehearsal—it all sort of turns off for me. I just can’t do it.”

So that would explain the problems Claudia’s been having with her. Callum wants to knock his friend across the head ( _lightly_ , obviously, he’s not a psychopath) and tell her to go a little easier on Rayla, but something tells him that neither of them would appreciate such a gesture.

“Have you talked to anyone else in the cast about it?” he asks. “I mean, maybe one of them has had the same issue in the past. They could help you work your way through it.”

A part of Callum wishes he could help her himself, but he can’t act, period—whether he’s alone in his room or in front of an audience is immaterial. There’s no advice he can give that would help her.

“Callum, I’m their _lead_.” She’s gone back to twisting the hair tie, he notices. “I can’t—this isn’t a problem a lead is supposed to have. I need to be able to manage it on my own.”

_Do you?_ Callum wonders, but he doesn’t press. From what he knows of Rayla, ‘managing it on her own’ is very much her modus operandi. He’s not about to suggest that she change that, at least not yet.

“Well,” he says, “at least remember that’s an option. And, uh, I know I wouldn’t be much help, but I’m always here too. In case you need to talk about anything.” When Rayla doesn’t reply immediately, he adds, “Not that you’re expected to take me up on that, obviously, I just—I just figured I’d offer. You know, since we’re friends now. Or at least acquaintances. Or—”

Rayla laughs, cutting off his rambling. “I’ll keep that in mind, Callum,” she says, and he can tell by the look in her eyes that she’s being sincere. “And I’d be glad to count you as a friend.”

“Oh,” he says. “Uh, good. That’s good.”

Ezran was right, he thinks—she _is_ pretty. But now is really not the time, Callum reminds himself.

Rayla laughs again, this time punctuating it with a light punch to his arm. “Of course it’s good, dummy.” She hesitates before adding, “Besides, I just spilled my deepest, darkest fears onto you. We have to be friends now.”

If those are indeed her darkest fears, Callum’s a little jealous. “You, uh, should probably be getting back to rehearsal soon,” he says, because it’s easier than talking about the blush spreading across his face. “They’ll be missing you.”

“Probably,” Rayla sighs. “Here’s to hoping I do better today.”

“Here’s to hoping,” Callum repeats. “And good luck.”

She waves him good-bye as she jogs back toward the auditorium, and Callum sighs as he shifts his car into gear. He _hopes_ everything about this production will end up okay. He really does.

* * *

To Callum’s utter lack of astonishment, it doesn’t. He wishes he could say he’s surprised.

“I need you to talk to Rayla for me,” Claudia tells him one morning, about a month before curtain. Callum jumps; he was alone a moment ago, and Claudia’s voice has that iron edge that reminds him all too well of her father’s business tone. She tends to adopt it during her more irritated moments.

“Uh,” Callum says eloquently, once he’s recovered his wits. “May I ask why?”

“You two are close, apparently.” She states it like a fact, and while, yes, her and Rayla have been talking a lot recently, the irritation in her tone surprises him. He chooses to chalk it up to stress. “Whatever she’s got going on with her—it can’t continue, Callum. I can’t have a lead who can barely act. I’ve tried to talk to her about it myself, but . . . _ugh_.” She throws her hands into the air in a gesture of defeat before stalking off, without even completing her sentence. Callum watches her go.

“Well, since you asked so nicely,” he mutters under his breath. She’s just stressed, he tells himself; she’ll probably be apologizing to him before lunchtime—and giving him a clearer picture of what’s going on while she’s at it. He feels a little guilty about contributing to that stress—his set design is still behind schedule, and from what Rayla tells him it’s been starting to impact rehearsal. He just needs more _time_.

He’s so lost in thought that he doesn’t remember it’s Thesis Day until he’s standing in front of the Theater classroom five minutes before the period starts.

“Ah, _crap_ ,” Callum mutters under his breath. He’s just been so busy these past few weeks, and he hasn’t even had the opportunity to think up a topic for his _Romeo and Juliet_ essay, let alone a thesis. He doubts he can do it in five minutes, either, so he makes a split-second decision and bolts.

He can afford to miss one day of class, he thinks. He’ll have his thesis by tomorrow.

Without so much as thinking about where he’s going, Callum ends up in the theater, which—okay, it isn’t exactly surprising. The empty auditorium has always been calming, especially when he gets the opportunity to set aside his worries and just _paint_.

Callum drops his backpack on the floor and makes for the supply closet. If he’s already skipping class, there’s no reason he shouldn’t attempt to do just that.

He uncovers a can of grey paint and a sponge he’s pretty sure was made for washing cars, then makes his way to a blank set of backdrops. They need something that looks like a stone wall for the scenes in the crypt, and as much as he would prefer to brush the detail in by hand, this is by far the quicker option.

The hour passes quickly. By the time Callum hears the bell echoing in the hallway outside, he’s finished about two-thirds of what he needs to—which, he’ll admit, is much better than he was expecting. He almost doesn’t even feel bad about skipping class.

* * *

“I’ll have something by tomorrow,” he grumbles to Rayla later, when she calls him in the middle of his brainstorming session to check if he’s doing okay. (She noticed his absence from class, apparently. It’s kind of sweet.) “I just panicked, I guess.”

Rayla snorts. “Tell me about it,” she says. “I’d be doing the same thing daily, if I could.”

Speaking of which . . . “Yeah, about that.” Callum realizes belatedly that he still doesn’t know what Claudia wants him to talk to Rayla about, but that’s her own fault for not telling him. “Play’s still not going great?”

“Nope.” There’s a sharp _whumpf_ from the other end of the line; she’s either fallen dramatically onto her bed or made contact with a punching bag. Either one would be in character for Rayla, he thinks. “It’s just not _working_ , Callum, I can’t explain why. They probably all think I’m an idiot or something.”

“They wouldn’t think that,” Callum replies immediately, but it’s only partially the truth. He doesn’t think his friends are particularly quick to judge anyone—unless the good of a production is involved, which, unfortunately, it is. “I mean, maybe some of them would, but not all of them. Definitely not all of them.”

“I can see you aren’t going to be much help,” Rayla mutters, but at least she sounds amused. He thinks.

“Hasn’t . . . I don’t know, _something_ gotten better?” he asks. “You have to be making progress, right?”

The silence on the line is all the answer he needs, unfortunately. “I don’t think so,” Rayla admits. “It’s just as hard now as it was on the first day. Maybe even harder.”

Callum wishes there was anything he could give her aside from canned encouragement. He knows she still hasn’t talked to anyone other than him about it—apparently, it takes a lot for Rayla to open up to people, which is. Understandable. But it’s becoming increasingly obvious that the two of them alone aren’t going to be able to solve this problem.

Which is maybe why, when Callum says, “I really think you should ask someone for advice about this. Maybe Soren? Soren’s nice,” Rayla doesn’t immediately shoot him down this time.

“You’re sure he wouldn’t—think any less of me?” Rayla asks him, and Callum knows she’s considering it.

“He won’t,” Callum promises. Soren might have a lot of bluster, and he _does_ enjoy teasing his friends a little more than what’s healthy, but Callum’s never seen him react to a genuine problem with anything but kindness. “And you won’t have to worry about him telling Claudia anything, either. Even if they’re siblings.”

Rayla sighs, and the proceeding silence is long enough that Callum wonders briefly if she’s been disconnected. “Send me his number,” she says finally, just as he’s about to double-check his phone for the call status. “And, Callum?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

He shrugs, before remembering that she can’t see him. “Don’t mention it,” he says. “Hopefully Soren can help you more than I could.”

“You’ve helped me plenty already,” Rayla says before hanging up. He texts her Soren’s number and flops back onto his bed, scrolling idly through a list of alternate interpretations of _Romeo and Juliet_.

A list which he’s all too eager to abandon when a text from Soren comes through.

**Soren:** i didn’t know you had Rayla’s number already  
**Soren:** cute

**Callum:** She’s asking you for help, idiot, pay attention

**Soren:** okay okay  
**Soren:** i’ll get right on that

For fear of distracting Soren further, Callum decides not to reply. He goes back to scrolling through SparkNotes instead, but none of the suggested essay topics look interesting enough to catch his eye.

* * *

“I’m writing about Mercutio,” he tells Ibis the next day. “And how he represents the damage caused by the feud between the two houses.” His teacher eyes him with a frown, and for a moment Callum is afraid he’ll call him out for choosing a topic he found on the Internet after less than thirty minutes of searching, but Ibis just nods.

“Very well, then,” Ibis says. “First drafts are due in a week, in case you missed the reminder yesterday.”

Callum breathes a sigh of relief and returns to his seat. They’re doing outlines today, which should help a little bit, but that doesn’t mean he has any idea of where to start.

* * *

He’s finishing up the crypt walls later that afternoon when Rayla and Soren walk into the auditorium, script books in hand. Callum frowns. Unless he’s gotten lost in painting again, he’s pretty sure rehearsal doesn’t start for another two hours.

“Hey, guys,” he says. “What are you doing here?”

“Breathing exercises,” Soren replies brightly, flashing Callum a thumbs-up. “Also line reads, but Rayla here seems to have everything down pat already.”

“It’s the performance that’s the problem,” Rayla mutters. Callum opens his mouth to ask if they’d be better off if he left them alone, but she beats him to it. “Before you ask, Callum, you can stick around. I already know I can perform around you.”

Callum nods and returns to his painting, only half-listening to Rayla and Soren’s conversation. He can tell she’s trying to take his advice, but at the same time, he knows her tone well enough to be able to sense the skepticism in it. He hopes Soren’s help is enough.

As he listens, he can’t help thinking that Rayla sounds even _better_ than before. Admittedly, he hasn’t seen her perform since that first day on the balcony, and her problems have never really affected her in small groups, but she’s still brilliant. Callum wants to tell her as much, but he’s pretty sure his interjection wouldn’t be appreciated.

Still, by the time he’s checking the lighting fixtures to see if the crypt set could maybe double as a dimly-lit alleyway (so he doesn’t want to paint yet another stone wall, sue him), Rayla and Soren sound like they’re getting along grandly. Soren keeps pausing in the middle of their exercises to crack bad jokes while Rayla, in turn, glances over at Callum and rolls her eyes whenever Soren says something particularly dumb. Which is fairly often, all things considered.

(“Hey, that reminds me of another one,” Soren says at one point, watching Callum struggle with the overhead lighting rig. “What did that Phantom of the Opera say before dropping the chandelier?”

Rayla gives him a suspicious look. “Do I want to hear the answer to that?”

“It’s _curtains_ for you!” he cries, then doubles over laughing. Rayla does not. Callum, on the other hand, does, but it’s mostly due to the pained look on Rayla’s face.)

Despite his best attempts to cover it up—Soren’s jokes deserve many things, but laughter, Callum insists, is not one of them—Callum can’t quite refrain from smiling whenever he turns away. It’s good to see two of his friends getting along so well.

Eventually, though, Callum does have to leave—he has other responsibilities to worry about, after all. He hopes the way Rayla clams up as soon as the rest of the cast starts trickling in won’t be indicative of her performance tonight, but he opts not to mention that as he exits.

“Good luck,” he says instead, flashing her a smile. “You’re going to do great.”

“It’s just a rehearsal, you dummy,” she mutters back, but she’s grinning too. Callum thinks the _thanks_ is implied. “I’m certain you’ll hear all about how it goes.”

“I’d expect so,” Callum says. He glances around, but Soren is nowhere to be seen—he’s probably on a bathroom break or something. “Say bye to Soren for me.”

“Will do.”

He slips out of the auditorium before the clock strikes five, since listening to Claudia’s usual pre-rehearsal speech isn’t something he’s particularly interested in. He has an essay to write.

By the time he gets home, Callum thinks he has a couple ideas, at least. He sets his phone to Do Not Disturb, shoves his worries about Rayla and the rest of the production to the side, and gets to writing.

It’s 9 P.M. when the sound of his ringtone manages to slice through the last shreds of his concentration.

Callum picks up, because anyone willing to call enough times to break through Do Not Disturb must have something important to say. “Hello?” he says, immediately regretting his failure to check the Caller I.D.

“It’s not working.” Rayla’s voice sounds exhausted—defeated, almost. “Even with all of Soren’s dumb breathing exercises. I still can’t do it.”

“Hey,” Callum says, pausing for a moment as he struggles to shift out of essay-writing mode. “It’s only been one day, right? Give it some time to sink in. Was it . . . was it any better today, at least?”

Rayla hesitates. “A little,” she says after a moment. “You’re—you’re right. Maybe it just needs time.” Callum can hear her breathing deeply on the other end of the line, and he finds himself imitating her. It’s strangely relaxing.

“You’ll be able to do this, Rayla,” he says. “When the time comes. I believe in you.”

“Thanks, Callum.” She sounds almost—choked up, a little? But he can’t say for sure. “I should, um, I should probably go. Got to drive home and all.”

“Yeah, sure.” Callum swallows, but he doesn’t hang up. “Uh. Good night, Rayla.”

“Night, Callum.”

His phone falls silent as the connection dies.

Callum tries to turn his attention back to his essay, but he can’t seem to concentrate at all. The words swim before his eyes, and his ability to maintain a reasonable train of thought has been completely derailed. He shuts the computer off with a sigh and moves to get ready for bed.

Oh well, he thinks. He has a week to finish the dang thing, anyway.

* * *

“She was amazing, I tell you.” Claudia is practically glowing as she speaks—Callum figures she’s gotten a decent night’s sleep for once, or she’s adapted well enough to her coffee consumption to compensate. “I mean, it wasn’t on the level of her audition or anything, but she’s doing so much better than the last couple weeks.” Claudia hugs her script book to her chest, shuts her eyes, and grins. “I don’t know what kind of sense you knocked into her, but thank you.”

So it appears that Rayla, a little unsurprisingly, was severely undervaluing her skill last night.

“I didn’t knock any sense into her,” Callum protests, for all the good he knows it will do. “All Rayla needed was time to acclimate, Claudia. You shouldn’t have been so harsh on her.”

Claudia just shrugs. “Well, it’s all water under the bridge now. It’d be nice if she could improve just a _teensy_ bit more, since I’ve seen her do it at the audition, but I’ll take what I can get.”

“Actually,” Callum says. “About that. She told me that she didn’t really audition?”

“Not technically, no.” Claudia frowns. “I think I found her in the hallway during callbacks and asked her to read something for me. And—wow. You should have been there, Callum; it was quite the moment.”

Something about that doesn’t sit right with Callum, but it’s not like there’s anything he can do about it. And everyone seems reasonably happy now, so he isn’t particularly interested in rocking the boat, either. 

The bell rings, interrupting his musings, and Claudia excuses herself so she can hurry off to class. Callum makes a mental note to tell Rayla of her praise later—the chances that Claudia will deliver it herself is pretty low, but that’s just the kind of taskmaster she is. 

Less than a month until curtain, he thinks. Despite how they might appear, Callum knows, things are about to get worse.

* * *

The next week is rough.

Rayla’s performance continues to improve, according to Claudia, but she’s running herself to the ground in the process. She spends more and more time in the auditorium, madly reading lines from her script book while Callum watches, paintbrush in hand, and tries to comprehend what he’s seeing.

Apparently not all of what she does translates directly to their full-cast rehearsals, which infuriates both Rayla and Claudia to no end. They’re more alike than they realize, Callum thinks. They could be great friends if they’d met under less stressful circumstances.

He says as much to Rayla one day, during one of the few breaks in her practice regimen. She laughs grimly and continues pacing the stage. “Me and Claudia? Friends?” she snorts. “Maybe if we both had death wishes.”

Callum shrugs and goes back to his painting.

“Hey, why don’t you ever talk to anyone else in the program?” Rayla asks him later. “You’re a nice fellow, you could be great friends with any of them.”

“I’m not really sure,” he admits. “I mean, I’m friends with Soren and Claudia, and now you. That’s enough for me.”

“Hm,” she mutters, but she doesn’t question him further. She launches into one of Juliet’s monologues instead, and Callum has to tear his eyes away from her so he can get back to his work on the backdrop.

They’re peaceful, these daily sessions in the theater. He and Rayla can cohabitate a space with ease, staying enough out of each other’s way to be productive while still enjoying the company. But the sessions are also stressful, because both of them know that things need to improve, fast, and time is running out.

Callum starts staying later and later, pushing off his essay and the rest of his homework to stay on track with the painting. Rayla starts pushing herself harder and harder, getting angry with herself when she can’t do something perfectly and expecting more even when she does. On the few nights that Rayla doesn’t have some sort of mental breakdown, Callum does, and it’s the same the other way around. Most nights, it’s both of them who stumble out of the theater as the clock nears twelve, drained, barely holding back tears of frustration.

It can’t last, Callum thinks, but somehow it does. Sure, he forgets about his essay entirely and has to drag himself out of bed at two in the morning to write the first draft on the night before it’s due, but that’s just part of the life. Rayla’s slowly improving, and the set is slowly nearing completion, and neither of them are dead yet.

The day he turns in the essay, he gives himself one night off. He figures he deserves it.

* * *

Callum ends up with a B- on his rough draft, mostly due to no small number of grammatical errors that Ibis has circled with a bright red pen. (Callum blames the stress of his post-midnight marathon writing session.) At the end of the paper, his teacher has scribbled _Sound technique, if a little uninspired. 82/100_. 

All in all, it’s not terrible.

He’s sitting on his bed working through the revisions when Ezran pokes his head through the door, Bait nestled precariously in his arms. “Callum?”

Callum looks up. “Ez? What’s going on?”

“I’m bored,” his brother complains. He puts Bait down on the carpet and throws himself onto the bed, sending Callum’s pencil stroke wide off the page. “You should come play games with me and Bait.”

“I can’t right now, I’m editing an essay.” Callum fumbles through his sheets for his eraser—it was next him a moment ago, wasn’t it?—before finally locating it underneath his pillow. He frowns. How did it get _there_?

“Ooh, an essay,” Ezran says with a grin. “Sounds boring.” Callum gives a grunt of affirmation, too busy trying to figure out what Ibis means by a ‘comma splice’ to reply further. “You know what would be more fun than that?” Ezran asks, but Callum already knows the answer.

“Ez, I can’t play games with you until I’m done analyzing this play.”

“Play?” Ezran looks up at him. “You mean the one that Rayla’s in?”

“ _Romeo and Juliet_ , yeah,” Callum says, striking out his third extraneous _and_. He must have been really tired while writing this. “We’re studying it in Theater while we put on the production.”

“Dad says it’s a dumb play,” Ezran informs him. “He told me that ‘under no circumstances should children have to pay for the crimes their parents committed.’”

And, well, of course Harrow would say that. For a moment, Callum wishes he’d thought to talk to his stepfather about the essay—what Ezran’s just pointed out would probably be quite interesting to analyze—but it’s a little late now. He already has . . . whatever this draft is, he thinks morosely.

Callum sighs. Maybe in another life, one where he’d thought of that sooner.

He fixes a citation and looks up to find Ezran still on the bed, eyes wide and pleading. “Please, Callum?” his brother says. “ _One_ game? We can play Find-the-Toad!”

Well, he’d be lying if he said he wouldn’t enjoy that much more than combing through a badly-written English paper or spending yet another night slapping paint onto wooden sets. “Fine, Ezran,” he sighs. “One game.”

Ezran lets out a cheer and scrambles off the bed, scooping Bait up off the floor as he goes. Callum drops his essay into his sheets and follows.

With luck, he won’t regret this decision later.

* * *

(He regrets it, of course, because that’s how it always goes.)

“We’re off-book tonight,” Rayla tells him at lunch the next day. She looks completely drained—the bags under her eyes are even darker than the last time he’s seen her, and she’s having trouble putting one foot in front of another as she paces. Callum almost feels guilty about how well he slept yesterday. “Want to come watch us butcher the play for three hours?”

“Thanks,” Callum laughs, “but I’m good. I’ll come to the first dress rehearsal, though.” He’s required to go to that, as the lead (only) scenic designer, but whatever. He’d do it anyway.

Rayla falls silent. She’s fiddling with the hair tie on her wrist again, Callum notices. “I—” she starts, then stops when Callum looks at her.

“What is it?”

“I’d feel better if you were there,” she says quickly, all in one breath, and Callum blinks.

“Oh, uh—you would?”

She refuses to meet his eyes.

“I’ll come, then,” he decides. “Rehearsal’s at five, right?”

“Four, because of the stumble-through.” Rayla hesitates. “You don’t really have to come, though, I don’t want to make you—”’

“I’ll be there,” Callum says. “Whatever you need.” He thinks he hears her breathing slow.

“Okay,” she says. “Okay, that’s good. Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” he says. “Besides, we’re kind of in this together now, aren’t we? Lunchtime auditorium buddies.” Technically, they’ve spent more time here during their late-night sessions, but those are less of a tradition. And probably better left undiscussed, unless either of them is in the mood for another panic attack.

Rayla grins at him. “Yeah. Lunchtime auditorium buddies.”

They sit in a calm silence until the bell rings.

* * *

Callum is sort of glad that Rayla talked him into coming to the stumble-through, because, well. Things are kind of bad.

And by ‘kind of bad’, he means ‘pretty much couldn’t be worse’.

“Don’t worry about this,” he tells the group of actors, who (aside from Rayla) are clustered together on the stage and casting nervous glances at the half-ajar side door. They look a little shell-shocked, and he doesn’t blame them in the slightest. “Tensions are just . . . running a little high right now,” he says. “Uh, why don’t you all go home? I’ll go talk to them.”

Soren joins him, eyes downcast, but the rest of the actors take him up on his offer and scramble out the theater’s main entrance. The rush is oddly silent, but no one seems keen to be the first to make a noise.

“So,’ Callum says, once they’ve all gone. “This is bad.”

“Yup.” Soren pushes his way through the stage door, frowning as the hinges squeak in protest. In Callum’s opinion, it’s nothing that a little axel grease won’t fix. Hopefully. “Let’s go run damage control.”

They find Claudia first, in the hallway just outside.

“I’ll talk to her,” Soren whispers to him. “You go look for Rayla.”

Callum nods gratefully and sets off in the opposite direction, keeping his eyes peeled for any sign of his friend. Behind him, he hears Soren’s voice echoing as he begins to talk, but he soon leaves the sound behind. His footsteps are far too loud in the hallway’s oppressive silence.

He canvasses the entire school before returning to the auditorium in frustration, intending to rejoin Soren and Claudia outside. But as he crosses the stage, he spots a familiar form sitting on the balcony.

“Rayla?” he says, mounting the steps carefully. She looks up at him, her face streaked with tears. “Uh. Hi.”

“Callum,” she says, wiping furiously at her eyes. “I—I thought you’d all gone.”

He sits down next to her, and when she doesn’t object, he lays a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not you who has something to be sorry for,” Rayla mutters. The implication is there— _it’s Claudia who should be apologizing_ —and Callum doesn’t even try to defend her.

“Yeah, I guess not,” he says. “That outburst was completely uncalled for.”

“Not completely,” Rayla sighs, and when Callum opens his mouth to protest, she glares him into submission. “Soren’s helped me out a lot, and so have you. But it’s still me who can’t perform properly. Not when I’m in front of any sort of meaningful audience.”

“But you _can_ —”

“I _can’t_ , Callum, that’s the problem.” She doesn’t sound upset anymore, just defeated. Callum isn’t sure which is worse. “I’ve given it everything I have, and—and it isn’t enough. This isn’t who I am.” She stands, and Callum lets his hand fall back to his side. “I can’t do this anymore. I’m quitting.”

“Rayla—” Callum jumps to his feet. “Rayla, you can’t just _leave_ —”

“I can,” she insists. “I _have_ to, or I’m going to—I’m going to break. Badly.”

And, well. He’s seen what she’s been doing for this past week. It’s very possible that if she continues, that will be the inevitable result.

But, unfortunately, he also knows that emotionally-charged moments are terrible times for making decisions. At the very least, he knows, she should sleep on it. If she still wants to, she can go through with her plan in the morning.

As much as it pains him to do it, he says so. She narrows her eyes at him and opens her mouth, but he stands his ground.

“Rayla,” he says gently, “please. At least give it a night. Don’t make a decision right now that you might regret later.”

“I wouldn’t regret it,” she mutters. “I know I wouldn’t.” But slowly, she relaxes, settling back down on the floor of the balcony. Callum joins her again. She leans her head onto his shoulder, and they sit in silence for a while.

“One night,” she says eventually. “But I don’t think my decision will change.”

“It’s okay if it doesn’t,” Callum says. “The one night is just to make sure.” It’s something his mother always told him, back when life was easier and the decisions to be made weren’t quite so stressful. But if anything, he thinks that makes her words even more worthwhile now.

“Just to make sure,” Rayla agrees. She slumps against him, drained, and Callum realizes that he, too, is pretty far from okay. But his work on the production is almost finished, whereas Rayla is in the middle and still increasing.

He doesn’t envy her position.

They remain on the balcony for a little while after that—Callum thinks Rayla is still summoning the energy to stand again, and he isn’t about to leave her here alone—and by the time they slip out through the side door, Soren and Claudia are nowhere to be seen.

Callum hopes they’ve gone home. He doesn’t want to consider the alternative—that they’re still here somewhere, having a violent screaming match somewhere in the vast empty halls of Katolis. Both of their cars are missing from the parking lot, though, so he assumes the best.

“You’ll be okay for the night?” he asks Rayla as they part ways in front of his car.

She nods. “I will be.”

“Good,” he says. “Then, uh, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Good night, Callum.”

He watches her go, and waits until she’s left the parking lot to start his car and begin the drive home. You can never be too careful, he figures, especially when it’s late at night and emotions are running high.

**Rayla:** Made it home safe, I know you were worrying  
**Rayla:** Thanks for being there for me tonight

**Callum:** Don’t mention it, really. Hope you feel better tomorrow

* * *

In the end, Rayla goes through with quitting.

“I have an understudy and everything,” she tells him the next morning, “so it’s not as if I’m leaving them out to dry. Playing a lead part in a show I didn’t even audition for—it’s not who I am, Callum. I don’t _want_ to be in the spotlight, not like this, and—”

“Rayla,” Callum says, putting a hand on her arm. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me. Or to anyone else. This is your decision to make.”

She lets out a deep breath, and Callum can practically see the tension drain from her shoulders. “Right. Of course not.”

“And don’t worry about Claudia, either,” he adds. “Whatever happens, she’ll get over it. This is for you.”

“I’m not worried about Claudia,” she assures him. Callum isn’t sure whether or not to believe that, but—it isn’t really his place to contradict her. “I’ll see you at lunch,” she says, then disappears down the hallway.

Callum doesn’t have the heart to remind her where exactly he’ll be at lunch. He’ll miss her company, sure, but she’s doing what’s best for herself—it would be selfish to try to convince her otherwise. He just hopes Claudia will see it that way, too.

* * *

Apparently, she does. Callum can’t decide whether he’s more glad or surprised.

Claudia catches him in the hallway after first-period Algebra. She’s clutching a travel mug of coffee in a death grip and wearing a gaze that could probably cut through steel, and for a moment she scares even Callum.

“Is this about—”

“Rayla, yes.” Claudia sighs. “I suppose I kind of deserved that.”

“It’s not about you.” She raises an eyebrow at him, and he reconsiders. “Okay, well, it’s not completely about you.” Callum pauses for a moment, considering his phrasing—he doesn’t know how much Rayla has told Claudia, or how much she wants her to know.

“You weren’t the cause of her issues with the production,” he says, “but you didn’t exactly do anything to help her out with them, either. You did kind of make things worse.”

“I guess I could have been more tactful about the whole thing,” Claudia admits.

“Like maybe not starting a shouting match about her acting in front of the entire cast?”

“Yeah,” she winces, shuffling the coffee from hand to hand. “Like that.”

They regard each other for a moment. The usual crowd mills through the halls around them, ignoring them entirely.

“Tell her I’m sorry?” Claudia says. Callum shakes his head.

“I think she’d like to hear that from you herself.”

“Oh, all right,” she shrugs. She hesitates, then takes a step toward Callum. “I’m going to do better from now on,” she says. “For the rest of this production, and when I direct the next one. _If_ I direct the next one.”

Callum nods. “I’m sure she’d appreciate hearing that, too.”

“She will.” The warning bell rings, catching both of them off guard. “I’ll catch you later?”

“Catch you later,” Callum says, and they hurry off in opposite directions down the hall. As much as he wants to make sure everything’s okay between his friends, he already has one unexcused absence in Theater this term. He’d rather not add another.

* * *

To even more of his surprise, he finds that Rayla was completely serious about seeing him at lunch—she’s waiting for him in the auditorium when he gets there.

“What?” she says in response to his gaping expression. “You thought that just because I’m not in the play, I wouldn’t want to hang out with you anymore? It’s too late to get rid of me now.”

And, as it turns out, he can’t—though it’s not like he wants to. She shows up in the auditorium during lunch, and on the few nights that Callum stays late to finish his work on the last few set pieces. (He’s taking a page out of Rayla’s book and slowing down a little. Immediate completion of the set isn’t something he’s staked his life on, so why should he act like it? He needs time to relax.)

It’s much, _much_ calmer than the week leading up to the stumble-through, which Callum has fondly nicknamed the Week from Hell. Or not-so-fondly, anyway.

“It’s quite nice, actually,” Rayla says one day, about two weeks before curtain. He’s finished with all his painting at this point, but eating lunch in the theater has become a tradition for the two of them, and besides, it’s quiet and air-conditioned in here. “Not having to play the role I was practically forced into, I mean. I don’t have to worry about meeting expectations I don’t even want to meet.”

Callum nods. “Kind of like the real Juliet,” he says, “except she never gets to experience that freedom.”

“I feel sorry for her,” Rayla admits. “She spends her whole life living up to the noble Capulet mold, and the moment she decides she might want something else, and tries to seize it . . . she dies.”

That thought sobers the conversation up quickly.

“Well,” Callum offers after a moment. “It is a tragedy. That’s sort of what happens in a tragedy.”

“Lucky real life’s not one of those, then,” Rayla says, but all of a sudden, Callum is barely listening. 

_I don’t have to worry about meeting expectations I don’t even want to meet_ , he thinks, frowning.

_She spends her whole life living up to the noble Capulet mold, and the moment she decides she might want something else, she dies._

_That’s what happens in a tragedy._

_Lucky real life’s not one of those, then._

He closes his eyes and groans.

“Callum?” Rayla says. “You all right?”

“Yeah,” he manages to reply. “I just—I _just_ thought up a good essay topic. For Theater class.”

Rayla gives him a look. “We turned in our rough drafts two weeks ago, Callum.”

He nods.

“And the final draft is due in a week.”

He nods again.

“So it’s a wee bit late to have thought up a topic.”

“Maybe,” Callum admits, “but I _like_ this one, you know?” When all Rayla gives him is another look, he adds, “It’s not like I have anything else to do this week. And I bet Ibis would be willing to clear it for me if I talk to him.” He jumps to his feet, all thoughts of eating lunch abandoned. “Do you mind if I—”

“Go talk to Ibis, Callum,” Rayla laughs. “Make him let you write your essay.”

* * *

Ibis does approve of his new topic—“I’m glad you seem to have found inspiration, Callum,” are the exact words his teacher uses, and Callum almost feels like apologizing for the rough draft he turned in. But he doesn’t, because hey, at least he wrote _something_.

This version, however, is going to be much better.

Callum works for the whole week straight on it, but strangely, it doesn’t tire him out the way everything else he’s done in the past month has. He _wants_ to write this, wants to make sure the idea is out there in the world for other people to see. It feels important to him.

He asks Rayla for permission to quote her words from the auditorium, sending the text during a late-night work session at nearly two in the morning. She responds the next day with an _Of course, dummy_ and also a _Please don’t overwork yourself writing this thing_.

Callum doesn’t. Honestly, he doesn’t think he could.

It’s far from perfect by the time he turns it in, but in his opinion, it’s leagues better than any revision of his old essay would have been. “I look forward to reading it,” Ibis tells him, and Callum grins back.

He’s proud of what he’s written. And he knows that somewhere along the line, he has Rayla to thank for being such a powerful inspiration. He makes sure she knows that.

* * *

They attend opening night together, because Rayla isn’t involved in the production anymore and Callum technically isn’t required backstage during performances. The rest of the crowd is mostly parents, but that’s okay—they’re here to support their friends. And also Callum’s many hours of set painting.

Corvus is a stellar Romeo, and Aanya is a perfect fit for the role of Juliet. Soren isn’t onstage for this production, but Callum makes a mental note to praise his lighting work when he sees him. Claudia must be proud of everyone.

“They’re all amazing,” Rayla says once the curtain falls and the cast begins trickling out for bows. “Wow. I’m really glad I got to see this.”

“Not regretting not being up there with them?” Callum grins. Rayla gives him a snort.

“Good God, that would be horrible. No, I don’t regret that at all.” She leans her head on his shoulder as the actors milk their applause. Callum can tell she’s smiling.

“Well, I’m glad you don’t regret it,” he says. “It’s nice to be out here with you.”

“Same goes for you, dummy.”

She takes his hand as they walk out of the auditorium, scanning the sea of faces in the lobby for anyone they recognize. “Now,” she says, “let’s see about congratulating that cast, shall we?”

He nods his assent and lets her pull him along. They stick to the edges of the room at first, waving and smiling at the various cast members, but Callum’s looking for someone specific.

Callum and Rayla spot Soren at the same time, standing by the far side of the doors and gesturing for them to join him. There are far too many people milling about in between, but they fight a path through the crowd anyway—just the two of them, making their way together through the multitude.

* * *

_Fin._


End file.
